


As Above, So Bello

by deadfvrst



Category: Danger Days: The True Lives of the Fabulous Killjoys (Album), My Chemical Romance
Genre: Makeup
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-15
Updated: 2018-03-15
Packaged: 2019-03-31 21:20:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13983561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deadfvrst/pseuds/deadfvrst
Summary: No body knows that Fun Ghoul likes to feel pretty sometimes, and he’d rather keep it that way... until he can’t.





	As Above, So Bello

Ghoul stared at himself in the mirror, a shattered shard propped up against the wall. Big enough that, sitting down cross-legged, it reached just high enough to picture the shadows of his face. A case of brushes and powders of all different colours sat beside him, his fingers trembling over the handle of one of the utensils. 

He was alone, for the first time in a long time, or as alone as he could get in the prying eyes of the desert sun. Natural light filtered through the broken diner windows, curving around his features and highlighting his tan skin. He’d rationed his water for the week to wash his face and hair, looking clearer and brighter than he had in months.

He’d scored the palette of make up from some fresh runner for half a pack of cigarettes. To anyone else? Total scam, but to him it was a steal. Out of all of them, it was Poison that wore kohl around his eyes and glitter on his cheeks unapologetically. Thank Pony for that, but Ghoul wouldn’t dare ask for something like that from someone like them.

Poison wouldn’t bat an eye, might ask to join in. Pony would tease him. They’d poke fun and tell everyone, and he wouldn’t say a thing in face of the favour and the fear of being denied should he ask again.

So no, no one knew that Fun Ghoul liked to feel pretty sometimes. He’d brush his hair with the comb he stole from his childhood, watching bots dress up each evening just to be stripped back down again. He’d tuck a long dark strand behind his ear and huff at his reflection because he refused to believe that, make up or no, he was anything more than average.

It wasn’t often he could make time for himself, and granted he didn’t really have the privilege of enjoying routine, but he tried to when possible. Shooting practice, the Girl and Kobra had prompted him. Supply run, said Jet and Poison, could use the extra hands. But, no.

He eyed himself again, sighing. He patted his cheeks with open palms and ran them down his face so the red of his eyes became visible. He was no artist, not like Poison’s scribbles and practiced lines. But he did as well as could manage.

He nearly dropped the brush in his hand, as he twirled it between his fingers. He remembered from years ago, when he was just old enough to carry himself with some confidence, passing comments of how his face was perfect for... Was it red? Or smoked out amber? Why not both?

He dipped the bristles into a brassy orange colour and painted it over and under his eyes. The red, from the outside blending into the middle and just on the edge of his under-eye would compliment it. He was liberal with the application, callus-riddled hands so used to the extra force necessary for shooting and packing heavy supplies.

The eye pencil was hardly a nub, it was just shorter than his pinkie finger, and had to be sharpened with a hunting knife that he usually reserved for opening cans. The black smudged against the edge of the blade and he grunted in annoyance, wiping the thing off against his tattered pants. 

The tip of the pencil on his waterline hurt, he’d seen Poison do it like that and smear it around countless times. But, he preferred to simply outline on his actual lid. Taking the brush from before, with an ashy brown he pulled the black down just slightly. It wasn’t beautiful, he thought, but it brought out the gold and green in his eyes. 

He’d heard of things, a cream or a powder of sorts that acted as a base to cover blemishes. He’d never seen it, of course, but he wondered often if there were a shade that would match his patchy sun kissed cheeks. As it stood, his skin was clear as could’ve been.

He wasn’t really sure what else to do, lipstick seemed like a pain, and the other tools just looked like more shadows. He shook his head, hair flying everywhere, into his face. He flattened it a bit, letting it frame the wide set of his jaw and... Yeah, maybe it was kind of beautiful, but more in the sense that he could wonder at this in privacy, that it was his alone.

He looked down at the case of brushes and colours and decided to tidy up. The case in question was a small ornate box, that he hid under a tarp of some kind in the back of the storage room, where of course, he slept. The thing about that room, was that t had no windows and no one ever came in except for anything but food or fuel. It was his job to monitor supplies and take inventory, writing ‘grocery lists.’ 

Which mostly consisted of telling someone, hey we need this, and then forgetting about it immediately afterwards. 

He’d barely managed to tuck the case away before a few heavy footfalls from the front startled him. He jerked back, dropped the box and landing on his ass from where he’d been crouching.

“Ghoul?,” It was Jet, of course. He rolled his eyes at himself and panicked again for a brief moment before tucking his hand into his sleeve and rubbing furiously at his eyes. 

“Back here,” he called, and the squeak of boots met him fairly quickly. Jet stood there with a frown and an armful of a box, which he dropped onto the ground and kicked into the tight space a bit further. Ghoul recoiled, slightly, but tried not to let it show.

Jet jerked a thumb behind his shoulder, “We got more shit in the trunk. Go help unload.”, and Ghoul did, he shot up and ran outside right into Poison’s shoulder, nearly making the other drop his box. Ghoul offered an apologetic smile, and Poison stared for maybe a second too long but they passed each other quickly. 

In truth there were only four small boxes full of more canned food, a new vest for the Girl, who was growing like a weed, and a small stack of very old zines.

They unloaded and stored it all fairly quickly, Ghoul saying something about not feeling well and preferring to stay in bed. Bed was really just a bunch of fabric and scraps on the ground folded like a nest, but he liked it that way. 

Except that, like most unfortunate and annoying things in Ghoul’s life, Poison decided to ignore his request to be left alone and sat down on against the wall nearest Ghoul’s head. 

The room was small enough that the nest of blankets stretched from one side to the other, but it went back far enough that the shelves and the tarp fit decently. A few posters lined the free space on the walls but no one knew what or who they depicted. 

Poison, who was especially more handsy than any of them, ran his fingers through Ghoul’s hair. Ghoul in turn, shuddered, not at the sensation but rather the thought that he so meticulously washed it recently and Poison’s hands were likely dust covered and grimy. He looked up at his red-haired companion, not sure what could have prompted the visit.

Poison stared back at him with a small smile, a calm in his normally manic eye, “What’s that on your face?”, he asked, and traced his fingers from the hair down Ghoul’s forehead and poked the tip of his nose.

Ghoul looked away, “Probably ash. I don’t know.”, he turned his face, inching away from prying hands and Poison pulled into himself immediately.

“I’ve wondered about that, you know. Sometimes you’re such a grumpy loner, but when you have your space for a while you look better, lighter.”, Poison mused, his smile had widened and he shook his head, adding, “I thought maybe you were just sick of us all sometimes but you— you’re really something, when you want to be.”

Ghoul hunched his shoulders, he didn’t want to hear it. Maybe someone was bound to find out but he didn’t care to explain, he probably couldn’t. Poison extended his hand out again, wrapping it around Ghoul’s upper arm and squeezing gently.

Poison sighed, when no response came, he said, “If you ever want help... Well, I’d be happy to oblige.”, and he stood with a lingering glance over his shoulder, swinging the door behind him with a loud squeak. A sliver of light from the outside peaked through the bottom and Ghoul turned again to face it.

It was exactly as he’d predicted, the bastard wanted to join in. It wasn’t a bad thing, Ghoul supposed, he’d simply revelled in having something to himself. He felt like, in a moment, a brief glance, that was ripped from him before he could say a thing.

He heard the Girl’s voice through the walls from the front asking, “Where’s Fun Ghoul? I wanna show him the trick I learned,” and Poison replying, “Maybe tomorrow, he’s tired.”, and that wasn’t wrong, he was tired. He could feel it everywhere all of a sudden, like a dull ache in his bones. 

He fell asleep to the murmuring of his friends.


End file.
